


Things Change

by mollykittykat



Series: TMNT 2012 Season 6 [1]
Category: TMNT - Fandom, Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles (TV 2012)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Continuation, Drug Use, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Needles, Recreational Drug Use
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-19
Updated: 2020-04-28
Packaged: 2021-03-01 16:41:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23740246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mollykittykat/pseuds/mollykittykat
Summary: In the absence of an apocalypse, the recent months have brought a thousand miniature threats, drawing The Hamato clan in separate directions.Raphael and Casey are taking on an underworld, thrown into upheaval in the wake of Shredder's death and Don Visioso's imprisonment.Leonardo and Karai are occupying The Foot in Japan, wrought with conflict and insurrection as Karai attempts to maintain control.Donatello has retreated into his work, allied with The Utroms to prepare the earth for the next inevitable cataclysm, while April moves to England to start college and attempt a fresh start on a normal life.Mikey, left behind in the wake of the surrounding changes, plans a birthday/mutation day to outdo all other mutation days. One last bash in order to bring his family together.Unbeknown to anyone, Shinigami is planning a birthday surprise of her own. Allied with an ancient fox spirit she succeeds in breathing life back into to Karai's long-dead father, unaware of the powers she's tampering with, and the malicious deity pulling the strings of her mind to an unknown, diabolical end.
Relationships: Brother bonding - Relationship, General family stuff
Series: TMNT 2012 Season 6 [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1710073
Comments: 1
Kudos: 18





	1. 1

Leonardo packed in the silence of his room, reorganizing his suitcase in the middle of the floor. Pensively he recounted everything on his list, making sure all of the trinkets and souvenirs he had brought home were properly dispersed, and that whatever supplies he needed to take were restocked.

_“Toiletries, shell-wax, snacks, bedclothes, photos…”_ he listed internally  
_“…wrist wraps, foot wraps, knee pads, elbow pads, spare weapons, belts…”_

Being a turtle, he had no need for extra clothes, which allowed plenty of room for all the other essentials. Yet he couldn’t quite shake the sense that he was forgetting something, and wanted to figure out what that “something” was as quickly as possible. He had only two days left before he returned to Japan, and between now and then was the Birth-utation party, which he intended to spend focused solely on having fun.

“Birth-utation” was the title of Michelangelo’s newly-coined holiday, combining Karai’s birthday and their mutation days, for upon hearing his sister had never before experienced a birthday party Mikey insisted she be squeezed in to the festivities as a part of one big birthday bash. The idea was as Mikey-esque as the name, yet the party was practically obligatory given the times. So necessary that Karai rescheduled her rendezvous to New York, claiming it was due to the escalating gang warfare. Though she wasn’t incorrect, the primary reason for her return was so she and Leonardo could attend the party to spite her stressful schedule.

Taking over The Foot after Shredder’s death had proved more complicated than she’d anticipated. The mere presence of a moral voice shook Oroku Saki’s sadistic kingdom to its core, and though the new recruits in New York had come to terms with the change of leadership, the long-time factions stationed in Japan were understandably ill at ease. Overseas were wrought with whispers of rebellion until it became clear that if Karai wanted to maintain control, her time in New York would have to come to an end.

Leonardo, after hours of meditation and multiple family meetings, came to the conclusion that he had to go with her. It was not out of infatuation, or his desire to see his father’s home country, or even general worry for Karai’s wellbeing. But he was the current leader of the Hamato Clan, and Karai was (as far as anyone knew) Oroku Saki's daughter. And while they didn’t expect every bloodthirsty maniac Saki ever employed to hold hands and sing “Kumbaya” when amends were made, they hoped that… together... they could finally kickstart the process of fixing the mess their heritage had left in its wake.

If all went well, this could very well mark the beginning of the end of the Hamato-Oroku feud.

But being the leader of his team and the eldest of his brothers, Leonardo’s newly acquired responsibilities made headship complicated. Thankfully no supernatural cataclysm threatened the foundations of humanity while he had been away, but texts and daily video-calls made it abundantly clear that lair life wasn’t exactly free of trouble.

Only a few months after his leave Donatello stopped going on patrol. He had formed a tight alliance with the Utroms, and was spending all hours of the day assisting them in research for the preservation of humanity. Their end goal was, so he had been told, a long-needed security buff; a way to equip the Earth Protection Force with the tools they needed to prevent the world from being invaded, blown up, or sucked into a black hole if left unsupervised for two minutes. 

Though Donatello’s enthusiasm for the furtherance of science was perfectly ordinary, the proceeding sleeplessness and obsessive lab hours suggested something more was bothering him, and it didn’t take a genius to figure out what. At the time Donatello stopped patrolling, April had cut off contact with the lair. There was no bad blood between them, the reasons she had for keeping her distance far more mundane than ill-will over a mutated father. But it didn’t make things any easier on Donnie, who once again couldn’t help but blame himself.

Two weeks after Leo left for Japan, April held her High School graduation. She voiced her plans to go to college to study journalism soon afterward, and Donnie urged her to shoot for the stars, undoubtedly living a little vicariously as he helped her craft applications and study for her SATs. The end result was a scholarship to a prominent college in England. Donatello was initially ecstatic until he realized the implications of the news.   
But he forced his own desires to the sidelines, and succeeded in a “congratulations” while sincerely promising to help however he could. Casey Jones, however, took it less gracefully. During the following weeks he took every opportunity up to argue those “hoity toity” schools were all a scam, and that April was better off somewhere in New York… like at the local community college, coincidentally set up down the street from the trade school his dad had enrolled him in. 

April took the attempts to challenge her decision with steadfast patience, which eventually devolved into restrained frustration. One day, Donatello half-seriously chimed in that April’s powers were far more useful in the realm of saving the world than the field of journalism. That proved the final straw, and she snapped under the long-mounting pressure of the past four years.

Hearing April scream in pure anger was unusual and terrifying, and it put the whole lair in a state of panic. The redheaded demigod lost it, going on and on about how she never wanted to be an alien experiment turned super powered ninja mutant. How her life was so fraught with danger that couldn’t even get her dad out of the house anymore.

“So I am **going** to England! I am going to be the best, most _normal_ journalist you’ve ever seen!”

The lair around her swirled with the violent, palpable energy of a telepath on the verge of wringing someone’s neck, barely holding themselves back.

“I am going to make friends with human beings that **_aren’t_** robot warlords in disguise! I’m going to go to school during normal hours and sleep at night! Because having powers that I never wanted does not mean I’m not allowed to have my life back!”

Those were the last words April spoke before disappearing from the lair, the concrete of the sewer tunnels trembling and cracking in her wake.

In the morning she apologized over the phone, and in turn received an individual and heartfelt apology from everyone who’d witnessed the meltdown. Even Michelangelo, though he hadn’t been aware enough of the situation to really do much more than hide behind the couch during her outburst. In the end, all agreed that April desperately needed some space. They would cut contact until the birth-utaion party, and then all interactions were to be put off until April’s move to England, where she could finally start things fresh.

So, in the light of the past six months, it was clear that everyone was in need of a party.

While Leo was still lost in his thoughts, Raphael appeared at his bedroom door and let himself in without knocking. Though he didn’t enter so much as he lingered on the threshold, leaning against the doorframe.  
Leonardo acknowledged him, not looking up from his suitcase.

“I thought you were out on patrol with Casey”

“Eh, it was a slow night” Raph shrugged, “figured I’d help ya’ pack.”

“Thanks, but I’m about done. Mikey gave me a hand.”  
Leo held up the Captain Ryan action figure his younger brother tucked amongst the toiletries, then returned it to the pouch next to the toothpaste before turning his head, shooting Raphael a disapproving glare out of the corner of his eye. “…even though I’m pretty sure I ordered you to take him on patrol.”

“Hey, you just got back yesterday. Can’t start bossing us so soon, you’ll sprain something.”  
Raph, having anticipated the callout, was nonchalant in his response.

“Mikey’s gotten sloppy,” he insisted “he’ll just slow me and Casey down.”

“He’s not sloppy Raph, he’s rusty. He’s rusty because ever since I left for Japan, _you’ve_ been leaving him behind.”  
  


Raphael tensed. He hadn’t foreseen the additional accusation, the extent of his disobedience uncovered sooner than he’d hoped.

Despite the distance between them, Leonardo had continued to train his brothers over webcam. It wasn’t nearly the same as in-person, but it had allowed a decent method of tracking his brothers’ growth, (or lack thereof). Donnie’s skills had fallen behind, understandably, but something was off about Michelangelo’s reaction time. At first Leo assumed it was just laziness, Mikey failing to practice outside of training, but tiny hints over the passing months began to suggest the truth: random phone calls out of boredom, stories about successful patrols he could only tell second-hand, large gaps in his understanding about current issues in the New York underworld. Michelangelo, optimistic and willfully ignorant, chose not to put together the pieces. Leo, however, would not let this slide so easy.

Raphael knew the jig was up, and with his self-confidence shattered he emerged from the doorway on the defense.

Leo, unfazed, continued without pause.  
“Mikey’s not the brightest, there’s only so many times you can send him on cushy side-missions to pick up pizza and rent videos before he figures out he’s been ditched. Whether he’ll admit it or not.”

Turning to look at his brother, Leo watched three emotions pass through Raph in rapid succession. Impulse to fight. Impulse to argue. A desperate desire to escape the situation altogether.

“Whatever! I’m sorry, okay?!” Raphael shouted.  
He threw his hands up in defeat and turned toward the exit. “You’re right. ‘Leo’s right!’ There you go!”

“Raph, wait”

Leonardo rose to his feet and hurried to the doorway, voice and countenance wrought with concern as he caught up with his sibling. He had hoped for an argument. Defeat was admitted far too quickly, especially for Raphael. If hhe was willing to go so far as to try and buy him off with a “Leo’s right,” that belayed something more than just pride was at the root of his behavior.

“Look, if there’s something bothering you, you know you can tell me right?” Leonardo asked. He gently took his brother by the lip of the shell, trying to halt his retreat.  
“I know I’m not Sensei, but I want to help! Just give me a chance.”

Raphael hesitated.

Leo was right about one thing: he wasn’t Splinter.

But Splinter couldn’t be there for them anymore. But if he were here, Raph knew he would want him to be open about his fears. Then, his father would say some wise proverb about bottling up his emotions, complete with a long, boring analogy.  
Swallowing his pride, Raphael turned around forced out an admission:

“I can’t do it alone.” 

This left Leo sympathetic, but perplexed. He knew Donatello was too occupied with work to patrol, and April was too busy trying to put her life back together to help with anything, but Raph had Mikey and Casey. It was a small team, but he wasn’t alone.

Raph realized his leader’s confusion, but only dared to explain once he’d shot a cautionary glance out the bedroom door, ensuring Michelangelo was out of earshot. Sure enough, his youngest brother was still hard at work handcrafting decorations and sorting through recipes, humming the chorus of an unremarkable pop-song in perfect bliss while Ice Cream Kitty swayed to the rhythm.

Eased by the sight, Raphael turned back to Leo.

“I can’t make sure Mikey comes home safe every night” he clarified “Not alone. It freaks me out.”

“What about Casey?”

“C’mon Leo! you _know_ Casey is different!”  
Raph snapped, forgetting all caution in the astounding stupidity of Leo’s statement. “He and I work on the same wavelength! I never know what Mikey’s going to do! And I can’t spend every second of the night making sure he’s not befriended murderers, pushing alarm buttons, or eating sidewalk gum!”

Leo crossed his arms and stared Raph down, brow narrowed. This clearly wasn’t the entire story. It had been years since Michelangelo had made mistakes so severe, (except the sidewalk gum. That was still a habit.) Mikey’s carelessness had been infuriating at the beginning of their adventures, but he recently made impressive strides, saving their lives as often as they saved his, his absurdity often all that kept the world from falling into ruin. 

But the argument wasn’t worth picking apart. They both knew Raphael’s doubts weren’t based on Mikey's abilities. Raphael wouldn’t admit it aloud, but his expression said it all. A long time ago, leadership lost its appeal the moment he realized guilt had the capability of hobbling him. As the team’s best fighter, the duty to protect his brothers was at the crux of Raphael's responsibilities, and Michelangelo was the figurehead of all the fears attributed. As much as Raph had grown since then, the safety of his youngest brother would always be a source of anxiety for him, especially now that he was the only one left on the team to have his back.

Leo sighed.

“I get it. Mikey’s our little brother. As much as we want to be able to protect him forever, everybody’s got to grow up some time.”  
He gave Raphael a bracing pat on the shoulder; an unsteady attempt at recreating their father’s old gesture of assurance. “But given our luck it’s just a matter of time before danger catches back up with him. If we want him safe, we’ve got to keep him sharp.”

“Fine.”  
Raph yanked his shoulder out from under Leo’s hand. “I still don’t like it though.” 

“Hey, he’ll do fine”   
Leo shrugged, forcing a smile. “What’s the worst that can hap-”

“Finish that sentence and I’ll kick your teeth in.”

Leonardo startled. There was a moment of uncomfortable silence between them. Then, Raph reached up, took Leo into a headlock, and delivered a merciless noogie. Leonardo escaped his grasp wearing a grin, seeing now that the aggressive reply wasn’t made in earnest.

“Hey, chill out man!” Raph laughed, followed up by a light shove.  
“Good thing we got you home when we did. You’re getting all edgy on us.”

In spite of himself, Leo laughed too.  
“Edgy huh? I’ll show you who’s edgy!” he retorted, and escalated the roughhousing with a full body tackle. 

The two became locked in playful combat; a flurry of kicks and grapples as they fell to the floor, knocking over the organized suitcase and scattering its contents. Neither of them seemed to notice or care, too engrossed in their half-serious tussle, like children with nothing to fight over except the right to be “right.”

Michelangelo, lost in his own thoughts, had not overheard a word of the distant conversation. However, the sounds of Leo and Raph going at it were enough to pull him from party-planning, and brighten his expression with warm reminiscence.

“Ah, Just like old times, eh Icecream Kitty?”

He looked to the Neapolitan blob on the tabletop, who mewed in affirmative and stretched her head out in a request for attention. Michelangelo obliged, and gently scratched behind her ears. He cooed about what a “pretty kitty” she was until he was alerted to his ringing Tphone. The name “Miwa” flashed above a selfie he’d taken with Karai, smiling uncomfortably within the grasp of a surprise side-hug.

“Sorry Icecream Kitty. Gotta take this” Michelangelo said. Forced to postpone the affection session he answered the phone.

“Yo’ Sis! What’s shakin?”

“Not much”  
Karai knew she was lying, but it helped keep things short, and she had more pressing matters on the mind. She had just ended a discussion with the troops she had left in Japan, and was currently struggled under the weight of jet-lag combined with the general sleeplessness, suffering from heightened anxiety due to a missing member of her ranks.  
“Hey Mikey, have you heard from Shini lately?”

“Nah. I thought she was with you!” Mikey said. He clasped the phone between his head and his shoulder, giving ICK one final pet before occupying his hands with a whisk and a large mixing bowl of odd-smelling goop. “You said she’d be coming to the party!”

“That’s what she said when we last spoke…” Karai sighed, adding “three weeks ago” under her breath.

Mikey’s face flashed with concern, but he immediately regained his cheerful air.

“Nah, I wouldn’t worry about it. You know how friends are, sometimes they just need space.”

“April’s different Mikey. The last time Shini and I lost contact like this, Shredder wiped my phone without warning and put me on a plane to New York.”

“Well, I wasn’t talking about April but– **oh**. Oh **_yikes_**.”  
That was the only reaction Mikey muster. Once again, Oroku Saki’s history proved itself an endless rabbit hole of cruelty and selfishness.  “How did it take so long for you to realize Shredder was the bad guy again?”

Karai, somehow appreciating the bluntness, exhaled deeply out of her nose.

“Sometimes the truth hurts so much that you’ll believe the stupidest things to avoid it.” She admitted, lightly touching upon her arduous history when suddenly Michelangelo’s response– the fact that he wasn’t referring to April– clicked.  
“Wait. Who are _you_ talking about?”

“Um…”

Mikey stuttered for a moment. His eyes drifted to Renet’s communicator, laying lightless and soundless on the kitchen table. In recent weeks he had kept it in arms’ length, hoping not to miss a call despite the constant dead air that had lasted for nearly as long as Leonardo had been away.

  
“Ah, nobody you know.”  
Mikey brightened again, like a switch had been flipped the moment he remembered he was talking to someone

“Just a long-distance sort of thing.”

Concerned, but not one to pry, Karai let it go and moved on.  
“Well, let me know if you hear from Shini. And tell Leo I’ll be there for the movie night. Just don’t expect me too early.”  
  
“Are you sure? You don’t want to miss out on my famous pizza-pudding!”

“Pizza pudding?”  
  
“Yeah!”  
  
Karai could hear the grotesque squelch of the phlegmy pudding mix as Mikey lifted the bowl to his chest, giving it a few whisks while adjusting the receiver against his chin.

  
“You see I found this Pineapple pudding mix and thought ‘hey! since pineapple goes on pizza…’–”  


“–I was actually thinking that Murakami’s sounds pretty good right about now!” Karai interrupted. She hoped the timing of the response didn’t reveal her disgust, and much to her relief the hint only incited further enthusiasm.

“Oh! Good idea!”  
Mikey unceremoniously tossed half-completed concoction in the fridge, the suggestion inciting a sudden craving. “I haven’t had pizza gyoza in forever!”  
  
Karai was tempted to point out that distinctly Michelangelo had eaten multiple helpings of pizza gyoza only two days ago, but he continued talking before she had the chance, his voice accompanied by the light metallic creak of the turnstiles as he exited the lair.

“I’ll go order some family specials. Maybe I’ll get a couple of cases of Ramune too!”

“…I’ll bring the popcorn!” Karai added, trying to match his enthusiasm and failing miserably.  
After she ended the conversation with a friendly “see you tonight” she hung up, and slumped down into her throne, reexamining the Tphone in her hand. With a few swipes she returned to the contact screen, scrolled to Shini’s number, and... after a moment of preparation... pressed the number for one final try. Her heart beat heavy, then sank into her stomach as she was answered by a familiar voicemail.

_“Konbanwa! This is Shinigami, goddess of death! Letting you know that the last thing telemarketers hear before they die is a high-pitched beep.”_

*beep*

“Shini.” Karai mumbled into the receiver, pinching the bridge of her nose as she staved off the stabbing pain of an oncoming headache. “If you turn out to be alive by the end of this, I’m going to kill you myself.”  
  
  


* * *

  
  
Far north, in the wilderness of central Northampton a full moon gleamed behind a veil of clouds. The air was dense and humid, foreboding a night of heavy rain fast approaching. Where the forest trees clung together, dense and black, a fox weaved about the underbrush with wary determination.  
The entirety of its being glared with an uncanny mysticism, orange fur glittering despite the lightless wilderness, pupilless golden eyes illuminating its path like twin lanterns. Beyond the fox was deathly silence and perfect isolation, for should a passerby of sound mind and unwavering focus catch sight of her, they may have caught a brief glance of seven tails instead of one, dancing between the saplings at its heels.

The fox’s unnatural illumination only grew in intensity as the forest thinned around it, leading to an isolated house by a river bank, desolate and empty. The house, however, was not the destination, rather it was the little clearing in the side yard. A body lay under the surface, feeding the seeds that had fallen at the base of the stone grave.

Upon emerging into the clearing the fox shifted as quickly as one blinks.  A magnificent woman of nearly seven feet stood in its place; face long and thin, eyes round and piercing. Waterfalls of loose black hair ran down down to the waist of a jūnihitoe, layers of ornate cloth adding new dimensions to the already imposing figure. 

She waited few minutes by the grave, still and silent besides a few occasional glances skyward at the faint glow of the hidden moon. Then, a black cat trotted trotted up to her in clearing, fur black and eyes yellow. Elegant but perfectly ordinary.  
The cat and the woman exchanged looks, caught up in some form of silent conversation before she at last spoke aloud in a voice low and tender.

“You’re late”

A purple puff of smoke arose around the feline, a curtain behind which a second human form gained shape. A youthful figure in a leather jumpsuit and a large-brimmed hat emerged when the haze fell away, bright makeup emphasizing the prettiest elements of an already pretty face.

Shinigami regarded her companion with a low bow, and answered complaint with a chuckle.  
“You say that as if my errand was easy. But…”  
Rising back to full standing Shini took a scepter out from behind her back. On its tip was clawed red hand, clasping an hourglass.  
“I’m a lady of my word”

Shinigami noticed the slight widening of the others’ eyes, the sharp flash of the golden light. _Kitsune_ , the fox spirit she had called upon, wasn’t one to wear her feelings upon her sleeve, so Shini could not help but smirk in a show of pride.  
“Impressed?”  


“Not quite. Just… surprised.”  
Kitsune gliding a step closer, attentions upon the time scepter “Again, you went to all of this trouble for a… ‘birthday’ gift?”

“Yes! Karai is going to be twenty! Isn’t that cute?”

Shini chuckled again, the joke appealing to her youthful ignorance. Though she was nearly two hundred, a Bakeneko who treads carefully is destined to live far longer, maturity of their spirit slowed by the nature of their being.  
Kitsune only stared. The number meant little to her. She had long lost track of what eras had come and gone, nine tails serving as a testament to her timelessness and power. Shini, realizing the pressure of the deity’s glare, felt judgment clawing into her mind, and took on a more serious manner in the presence of her superior. 

Rounding the clearing, the witch took her place on the left side of Splinter’s grave, holding the scepter at her side.

“The birthday is just an excuse.” Shini explained “I was going to make things right for her, one way or another.”  
She glanced over the decorated resting place. Amidst the trinkets and flowers was a framed photo, faded by weather and rain. Yellow cat-eyes examined it with clarity despite the darkness; an infant peacefully sleeping in the arms of a mother and father.  
“Karai deserves everything. If this is the most I can do for her, then I will do it.”

Tang Shen had been Shinigami’s first choice for resurrection, but that quickly proved impossible. Even if Shen’s bones weren’t ash lost to the wind, her soul had already returned to the earth to begin life anew. Splinter was freshly dead, bound to the realm of spirits, memories intact. He was the perfect subject, so long as they acted fast.  
And yet in handing over the scepter, Shinigami was pierced by a wave of doubt. She froze halfway through the exchange, halted by caution. But when the witch looked up and locked eyes with the fox spirit, Shini’s confidence inexplicably returned. The moment her grip loosened Kitsune was standing on the opposite end of the grave, time scepter in hand.

Wasting no time, Kitsune held the object aloft. It glowed bright against the distant thunder of the approaching storm. A hole pierced the clouds above at her unspoken command, allowing the full moon to cast a beam upon the grave between them. In that moment, Shini felt an indescribable surge of power seep into the earth at her feet, a forbidden tool in the hands of an ancient deity hard at work undoing the laws of nature, cutting the strings of fate to weave a new tapestry. 

It was fascinating and frightening. Regret threatened to take hold of her heart, but knowing it was far too late to turn back Shinigami chose instead to lose herself in excitement.  
She could see Splinter now, moving about in the dirt, struggled to the surface with bones and flesh mending before her eyes. A familiar voice –muffled and confused– coughed, spitting out the earth that had attempted to reclaim his body.  
A familiar pair of ruddy brown eyes broke the soil, meeting her gaze as the thunder cracked rain fell in a sudden, blinding torrent, soaking Shinigami to the bone. 

But Kitsune remained untouched, like the very forces of the air fearing to disturb her.  
Her hair flew back like ravens wings, jūnihitoe fluttering, eyes overwrought golden flames that danced like a furnace, forced to burn far brighter than possible.

  
“ ** _Patience_**.”  
  
Kitsune’s voice boomed like a thousand speaking at once. A glance into the mind of Shinigami revealed a foolish desire to leap into the dirt, and help her mistress’s father from the pit. To tear the cocoon from the wings of an emerging moth.  
  


** “ _The effects of death are not easily undone._ ** **_You must not interrupt_.” **


	2. 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Turtle luck strikes again as Michelangelo's simple errand spirals out of control, his neglected fighting skills put to the test as he and Casey Jones battle some familiar faces, and some unfamiliar ones too.

Behind the shuddered windows and doors of a tiny Japanese kitchen, tucked into the Lower East Side, a yell of anguish broke through the New York skyline.

“You’re closing!?” Mikey shouted, clutching his head in his hands. 

Murakami wore a sympathetic expression as he divided out the boxes of hot food. The inevitable truth had come to light, and his attempt to break the news gently had worked about as well as expected. “Not closing, just relocating” he explained, though the correction did little to ease Michelangelo’s despair.

“To  _ Texas _ !? You’re practically going to another planet!” 

“Perhaps. But it’s another planet with half the living cost, and half the alien attacks.” 

Murakami retained his gentility as he explained himself, adding the finishing touches to the box of gyoza. Folding it closed the same way he had a thousand times before. “There’s still plenty of time before I move out. Don’t think I won’t teach my best customer all of the recipes he wants to know.” 

Mirukami slid the entree in front of the despondent turtle, hoping his reassurances would get through with the assistance of hot food and a few extra egg rolls thrown in free of charge. Unlike usual, Mikey didn’t immediately begin stuffing too-hot-to-eat food into his cheeks. The heaviness in the room was unprecedented, only outdone by his first restaurant visit in the wake of his father’s death, when Michelangelo had ordered only a single bowl of miso soup, eaten in unbroken silence. 

He cried for a long time afterward. Murakami didn't know what to do, except sit close by and let him. They never talked about that day, though Mirukami thought about it regularly, always unsure if he had done enough.

But to Mirukami’s relief, Michelangelo eventually opened the box put before him. Popping one of the gyoza into his mouth the turtle hummed in delight, mood lifted ever so slightly, though he remained far removed from his usual happiness.

“Everyone’s leaving” he mumbled, and ate another.

Murakami washed his hands, and sat down next to the despondent teen.

“Nobody wants to leave you. Neither do I.” he assured “I’ve run this shop for over a decade, I wouldn’t leave all of it behind if I felt like I had a choice.”

Mikey added another potsticker to his full mouth, mumbling a regretful, yet understanding “mmhm” in response.

Murakami was quiet for a moment, trying to consider the next method of easing his friend’s heavy heart, when there came the sound of a car door closing outside. To Mikey it was just another bit of New-York background noise until he noticed Murakami reacting oddly, leaping to his feet, sightless eyes turned toward the street behind the window blinds.

“Oh no.”

“What?” Mikey asked, swallowing the half-chewed gyoza in his mouth. He sensed something was amiss, even as Murakami denied it with a reassuring wave of his hand.

“It’s nothing. Wait here, I will be back in a moment.”

He briskly exited his restaurant and closed the door behind him. Mikey, not believing a word of it, followed as soon as the chef was gone from sight. In stealth mode Michelangelo braced his shell against the wall and gently nudged the door ajar. Murakami voice’s wafted in from the sidewalk, a soft and fearful plea. 

“Please Lizzy, not now. Come back at a later time.”

His suspicions nearly confirmed Mikey opened the door a little more, just enough to peak out into the surrounding streets. 

Seeing the scene before him, his eyes widened and his heart skipped a beat.

There had gathered a crowd of eight unsavory-looking characters in front of the tiny restaurant, armed with slapdash weapons; chains, crowbars, and blades. Every one of them was tattooed, marked with an X somewhere on their body, whether inked into their skin displayed on their clothing. In the foreground was Mr. Murakami, addressing them with steadfast meekness. He was speaking to their leader, a mutant Mikey had never seen before. Intrigued, the freckled turtle craned his head to get a better look. 

‘Lizzy’, from what he could see was a tall, gaunt chameleon. A cigarette hung from her scaly mouth. A giant decorative X reached down from her clavicles down the top of her shirt. Or skin. Or... both? It was hard to tell. Her clothes –tank top and slacks– were visibly grafted to her body and textured like scales, undoubtedly the outfit she’d worn when mutagen (in its random inability to discern object from animal) confused cloth as flesh during her transformation. Gross, but not unheard of. Muck Man suffered a similar affliction, the tattered remains of a uniform now sloppy bits of orange skin draped over his extremities. But unlike Muck Man, it seemed the chameleon had made do with a dazzling array of tattoos, and narrowly succeeded in tying together the nauseating bastardization of scales and fabric via a variety of carefully chosen patterns and colors.

The adorned ringleader casually strolled to the front of her crew. Both hands were buried in her pockets, which bent in a strange sinewy manner that confirmed Michelangelo’s assumptions. 

“Wish I could Pops, but turns out X-Insurance has itself a new motto:…”  
The chameleon chuckled. Her voice was scratchy and unpleasant, like her current cigarette was only the most recent addition to a decades-long habit “… ‘We don’t leave until we make a sale.’”

Her air was easy and self-assured, but confidence is far from impressive when one brings an army to face down a blind old cook. Lizzy inhaled deeply, taking out the remainder of her cigarette which she breathed out a grey cloud of smoke. The wind pulled it into the face of Murakami. He choked and attempted to wave it away.

“Even if I did need your help,” he coughed “business has been slow lately. I couldn’t-”

“Can’t arrange to lower your rates more than I already have, old man.”   
Lizzy pulled the smoldering butt from her mouth tossing it aside, closing the distance between them with long, arrogant strides “Now, I ain’t gonna hurt you. But…”

Murakami flinched as two scaly hands took hold of his collar, lifting him an inch from the ground. The stench of nicotine was overpowering, the breath of the mutant thug rancid and hot against his face.

“I’m gonna give you four seconds to rethink your budget before I start breakin’ things”

Lizzy ended her sentence with a sharp, surprised yelp. Murakami was dropped as a shuriken, narrowly dodged, wizzed by her cheek and buried itself in the sidewalk nearby. The chameleon’s bulbous gaze was quick to locate the source. Michelangelo stood in the fully-open doorway of the restaurant, eager for a fight, nunchucks spinning at his sides.

“Hey!” he shouted, “Leave him alone!”

Lizzy was startled for a moment, but after squinting to determine the headband color, boredom took the place of surprise.

“Oh. It’s the orange one.” 

She pulled a fresh cigarette from her pocket as she turned to the group behind her, gesturing toward Mikey with her head while her hands busied themselves with the marlboros and zippo lighter.

“Don’t just stand there, get rid of him!”

With the command given the gang rushed the doorway all at once. Mikey fell into the patterns of well-honed muscle memory, and by the time he had taken out the first thug with the crack of nunchuck against skull, he pieced together the identity of the gang, recalling a few shared discussions between Raph and Casey after patrol.

Since bailing from The Foot, Xever had made a name for himself in the underworld, expanding from thievery to any form of illegal activity worth a profit. He’d taken the name ‘Mr. X’ and ran with it, the tell-tale X becoming a recognizable symbol amongst graffiti in war-torn back alleys. 

While the fish was undoubtedly swimming in a bounty of illegally-acquired wealth, the men in his employment weren’t much more than the average street thugs. Out of practice as Mikey was he found fighting them off easy enough; a fun flashback to simpler times... the first time he met Murakami, the first time he’d eaten pizza gyoza, the first time he’d pummeled Purple Dragons until they couldn’t tell Pittsburg from Queens…

Mikey took a break from his trip down memory lane to compliment the tall muscular skinhead, who had gone all-out with the giant X shaped tattoo covering the entirety of his face. The X-man had just begun thanking him when he was knocked out with a swift roundhouse, marking the seventh and final member of the militia.

All that remained was Lizzy.  
She appeared annoyed, the brief battle forcing her to toss aside her newly-lit cigarette, wasting it. Mikey, fueled by pride, let out a loud victorious “ha!” and crossed his arms. 

“Not so easy going up against someone who can see! Huh?”

The chameleon grinned, a toothy cheshire smile the last thing to be seen before it disappeared into thin air. There was a light pattering of feet and a fretful “Michelangelo! Look out!” from Murakami before three unseen punches came in rapid succession– Face. Face. Gut. 

The moment Mikey’s body could register the damage he crumpled, barely succeeding in bracing himself on the doorway before a final kick to the chest sent him stumbling backward into the restaurant.

‘ _ Oh yeah.’ _ his brain barely managed to spell out, his lungs struggling to regain the wind that had been knocked from them ‘ _ … Chameleon.’ _

  
Then blows began again like a violent hailstorm, but knowing what to expect Mikey spun his nunchucks in defense, calculating his aim by the rush of air and the sour smell of old smoke. This method proved mostly successful, but the few attacks that made it past his guard hit like bolts of lightning, the relentlessness and unpredictability slowly tearing down his guard.

So it turned out that wannabe crooks didn’t make up the whole of Xever’s gang. Whoever this lizard lady was she was highly trained. And she was  _ good _ …. and invisible.

Meanwhile there was Michelangelo; out of shape, without backup, and super duper visible.

“Time out!” he gasped “Time out!”

The request was merely a joke, but to his surprise the invisible attacks came to a stop. Confused, but thankful, Mikey took the opportunity to try his luck, hoping to get his attacker talking in order to keep a beat on her location.

“Man” he huffed “You’re good.”

A chuckle echoed around the empty dining room, Lizzy’s ego clearly swelling.  
“Yeah, I didn’t get the nickname ‘Lizzie Borden’ for nothin’!”   
  
Her voice disappeared in the direction of the kitchen. Mikey followed tentatively and asked out of impulse:  
“Lizzie Borden? like with the axe?”

On cue, a meat cleaver appeared by his blindside, brought down by invisible hands. Mikey caught the handle between the chains of a nunchuck before it made contact with his face, but keeping it at bay was a struggle. He was forced to rely on footwork to combat Lizzie’s upper body strength. His motions were matched step-for-step in a strange dance, ending with him pressed painfully over a prep table, straining as the blade crept steadily closer to his snout.

“More… like… Lizzie  _ Boredom _ !”  
Michelangelo huffed, struggling to continue the conversation while keeping his face in one piece, “I missed it when you were hiding behind your hench-guys, lounging around… doing nothing like… some sort of… of… Lounge Lizard!”

In a flash the chameleon suddenly reappeared, summoned by the uninspired remark, face scrunched up into a look of perplexity so intense she forgot to maintain her transparency.

“Lounge Lizard?” she echoed.

Michelangelo, had he not been embarrassed by the poor quality of his clapback, would have used the distraction to wrench the weapon free of the attacker and unleash his kusarigama blade. But, forgetting his position, he admitted

“Yeah, not one of my best names.”

Then Lounge Lizard let go of the cleaver, and Mikey toppled-forward, very nearly slicing his own face in the fall. During the struggle to fend off the weapon he had accidentally allowed her to use his own strength against him; a juvenile mistake that landed him face-down upon the tile.

The next half a second was a blur.

Mikey, knowing he couldn’t move out of the way in time to dodge, covered his face and braced himself. Lizzy was on the verge of stomping downward on the head of her collapsed opponent, when hockey pucks tied to fireworks shot out from the doorway to the dining room. They found their mark, bursting against the chameleon before she could land her blow. In the midst of tiny explosions and her startled yell, a well-timed “Goongalaaaa!” filled the air.

By the time Lounge Lizard had recovered from the pucks Casey Jones was upon her, gliding upon inline skates, striking her out with a wooden bat. A direct hit against her jaw sent her flying. Her back cracked against the pantry door and she rolled to the ground, pained and dazed.

Casey skidded to a halt and helped Mikey to his feet.

“You okay dude?” he asked in a voice slightly muffled by the hockey mask. Mikey nodded in the affirmative, rubbing at his bruised plastron as he regained his balance.

“Thanks.” he panted “Man, how’d you know I was here?”

“Was passing by. Saw all the unconscious guys and thought Raph was having a field-day without me.”

Mikey pouted, unable to conceal a little grumble of disappointment before Casey Jones took hold of his mask tales and began yanking him in a new direction. With a few firm tugs he tugged him across the kitchen, into the open door of a walk-in fridge, and hunkered down. Casey threw a gloved hand over Mikey’s attempts to protest as foreign footsteps entered the kitchen, followed closely by the familiar voice, instantly recognized as the cool monotone of Hun.

“You can run, but you can’t hide, boy. We know you’re in here.”

He was joined by a number of footfalls, indicating the other three Purple Dragons were with him.

Pulling out from under Casey’s hand gag, Mikey turned to the vigilante with an angry whisper.  
“You led the Purple Dragons to Murakami’s?”   


“I led them to  _ backup _ ” Casey hissed in return.

“You’re making this too easy.” Hun spoke up, and the two silenced their quarrel, rigid as they backed further into their hiding spot. The voice, closer now, continued…

“This here is Dragon territory.”

“ _ Dragon  _ territory?!”  
Lizzy suddenly interjected from the floor by the broken pantry door. Groggy, yet conscious, the chameleon pulled herself upright, swaying slightly upon her feet. “No no no. This ‘ere is Mr. X’s territory! Go find your own!”

Hun examined the mutant with crossed arms. He seemed unsurprised, apparently having already formed a bitter acquaintanceship.

“What’s wrong, Elizabeth? Punch drunk already?”

“It’s  _ Lizzy _ . And I was doing fine, actually,” she growled “until yer’ little bat boy got in the way.”

Hun raised an eyebrow, then removed his sunglasses, tossing them aside as he looked around, his suspicions confirmed.  
“So he  _ is _ here.”

“Yeah, one of them ‘ninja turtles’ too. The orange one. What was the name… Francesco?”

“The name doesn’t matter. I’ll take care of  _ you _ after we solve our little pest problem.”  
At the snap of Hun’s fingers the three goons spread out, overturning every possible hiding place. Lizzy, unaffected by the threat, reclined against the wall and lit up a cigarette.

“Yeah? Well have fun with that.” She mumbled under her breath, and watched the scene unfold. 

Tsoi, Sid, and Fong left no stone unturned, checking everywhere from under the sink to the inside of trash cans while  Casey pulled out a hockey stick with an air of anticipation, knowing that it was just a matter of time before the gang made their way to the fridge. His attentions were jarred by a rustling behind him, and he turned around to see Michelangelo raiding the surrounding food shelves.

“Mikey.” Casey whispered “This is not the time.”

“Relax dude, it’s all part of my awesome plan”

“What plan?!”

“I saw it in a movie once. Look…”  
Mikey stepped back, a jug of soy-sauce under one arm as he pointed at a pull-latch handle on the door.  
“If we move fast enough, we can trick them into locking themselves in.”

“Mikey, that’s not how it works” 

In secret, Casey might have agreed to the plan if he hadn't currently been studying refrigeration and air conditioning repair. He was merely in it for the job security and the promise of a decent paycheck, but excluding the days where he soldered copper and discussed the lethality of refrigerant, the whole thing was ridiculously boring. But equipped with some knowledge about walk-ins, he knew that though Mikey was correct about the pull-latch handle, Murakami was a responsible restaurant owner, and had undoubtedly equipped his fridge with an internal door-opening mechanism to prevent those sorts of accidents.

However, a plausible rendition of Mikey’s plan crossed Casey’s mind, and a devious smirk formed beneath his hockey mask.

“Actually…”  
Casey paused, pulled a screwdriver from his arsenal of makeshift weaponry, and approached the ajar fridge door.  
“You might be onto something…”

Hun, having overheard the whispered conversation, motioned to the other dragons to keep silent as he approached the hiding-place. With his attention upon the walk-in fridge he saw the ajar door swing shut, followed by an “oops!” from the familiar voice of Michelangelo.

Assuming the cards were dealt in his favor, Hun called his men over with a wave, and informed them of the plan with a variety of silent gestures. Piecing together a translation (albeit slowly) the three Purple Dragons armed themselves with various kitchen equipment– a steak knife, a meat tenderizer, and an electric mixer– and got into position.  
  
Hun stood certain that he was well prepared for whatever awaited him as he took hold of the door handle, and swung it open. He had expected everything from a poor attempt to stay hidden to a readied attack, but was surprised when he was greeted instead by an opaque purple cloud.

A smoke bomb had been released mere moments before the door was opened. While Hun was still realizing this, the weighted end of a kusarigami shot out from cover of the smoke like an angry viper. Thinking fast, he defended himself with an upraised fist, and the chain aimed to entangle his neck grabbed Hun by the forearm before yanking him into the fridge.

The smoke steadily cleared as Hun battled his two attackers in the cramped space; food, shell, and weaponry beaten about like pinballs. Hun twisted his limb free of the kusarigama’s grasp while he took on the duo with skilled precision, successfully fending off every spinning nunchuck and swinging hockey stick, only falling behind when Michelangelo caught him by surprise once more by flinging the contents of a jug of soy sauce directly into his face.

Hun, eyes stinging, finally faltered. Casey took advantage, jamming a hockey stick into Hun’s hamstring while he made for the exit, Mikey at his side.

The teen and the turtle broke from the walk-in simultaneously, slamming the door behind them. The Purple Dragons awaited their arrival with weapons upraised, but were sluggish and inept in bringing them down. As usual, fending them off was a simple challenge that Michelangelo and Casey Jones found more fun than frightening. Meanwhile, Hun recovered his senses inside of the darkness of the shut fridge. Face contorted in frustration he reached for the door which, to his dismay, wouldn’t budge. Temper tested he moved on to the release-mechanism and found it sabotaged. The handle designed to open the door was missing altogether, now stuffed into the vigilante’s back pocket like a trophy.

Lizzy witnessed the series of events with amusement, but sensing her time was short she decided to disappear while she could. But she had forgotten to dispose of her cigarette. Mikey spotted it floating overhead as she traversed the ceiling, moving over the melee toward the exit. 

In a moment of mischievous impulse Michelangelo grabbed a bag of flour from the nearest shelf and gave chase. When the cigarette reached the doorway, he threw the bag with all his might at the escaping chameleon. He hit his target squarely between the shoulder blades and the paper burst in a puff of white powder, coating the phantom and revealing her form.

Lizzy, realizing her cover was blown, broke into a run.

Mikey, certain that Casey was more than capable of taking on the likes of Tsoi, Sid, and Fong, gave chase.

“Don’t worry, I got her!” Michelangelo assured, paying no heed to Casey’s confused shouts of “wait, what?!” as Mikey pursued the chameleon through the dining room to the streets outside.  Emerging from the restaurant he stayed close to the powdery silhouette, keeping Lizzy in his sights even as she scurried up the vertical face of the building, her natural skills putting considerable distance between them.    
  
Michelangelo, undeterred, bounded up a fire escape for as far as he could go without using his shuko, hurrying to catch up to the mutant mugger up along the narrow concrete ledges, toward the rooftops overhead.

Meanwhile, Casey Jones continued his battle within the kitchen, accepting his duty to take out the remaining Purple Dragons on his own. The original trio were a beatdown to be savored, and he was far more worried about Michelangelo, who’d wandered away to fight some unknown lizard monster one-on-one.  
  
Casey’s confidence, however, only lasted as long as the locked fridge held it’s prisoner.  
In the process of taking out the last of the dragons he became aware of a loud banging, emanating from the walk-in fridge. When Fong finally collapsed into unconsciousness, the door slammed open and Hun emerged, soaked from his hair to his chest with soy sauce. His left hand gripped the bone of a ham shank, embedded with the bits of metal from the release mechanism he had smashed into submission.   
Tossing it aside, Hun cracked his knuckles, his usual calm masking a suppressed fury.  
  
Casey Jones chuckled, nervous as he was amused, then braced, shielding himself from the oncoming flurry of attacks. The strikes knocked him off his guard, then knocked him around, a final kick to his stomach throwing him backwards where his spine collided painfully with the edge of a kitchen sink.   
Waves of hot agony rippled down his back. His breath froze within his chest, white stars blocking his vision. Hun was all too eager to take advantage, dashing forward and started round two with a blow to the jaw that knocked out two of Casey’s few remaining teeth.


	3. 3

Once the chase leveled from a vertical climb to a run over the rooftops, catching up the escaping lizard proved a simpler feat. Lounge Lizard seemed to be making her way toward the water tower in the distance, undoubtedly intent on cleaning the layer of flour off her scales. Michelangelo intercepted her, sliding in her way with shuko set aside, nunchucks twirling.  
“The jig is up dude.” He warned “Give up now, or face my mad skills.”

Lizzy skidded to a stop and reappeared, giving up her invisibility now that it was no longer worth the effort. With no small amount of aggravation she put up her dukes, falling into a southpaw stance in preparation for a tussle.  
“If I go down, I go down swingin'.”

With that, she released a battle cry and rushed in to deliver an uppercut. Mikey joined in with a “Booyakasha!” of his own and met her halfway, nunchuck and knuckles clashing upon the rooftop.  
Now that Lizzy was visible, Michelangelo was able to better gauge her fighting style. The chameleon’s ability to disappear didn’t extend any further than her own skin (and whatever she kept in her permanently-affixed pockets), so it clearly worked in her favor to fight with fists alone. Her technique was akin to kickboxing, but with a strong emphasis on the western method of “boxing” that was much unlike much of what Mikey was used to. She moved in small jolts and hit hard. It reminded Mikey of the his old Knock-Out video game… a scrawny underdog who was fast on their feet, and hard to keep down.  
But with Michelangelo armed, and Lizzy without her advantage of disappearing, they were nearly an even match. She’d cast aside her ease in order to keep her guard up, yet could not help a snide comment as she fended off the axe-kick at the tail end of a kata and worked to regain maneuver room.  
  
“Geeze, if yer the useless one, I’d hate to see the other turtles in action.”

Mikey wasn’t so willing to let her back off. Her semi-retreat was a sign that her defense was falling short, and he could break through it so long as he kept going while matching her speed. Unfortunately, his moves were getting sloppy, the focus he needed to recall his long-neglected martial arts challenged by the insult.

“Useless?” he retorted “Who says I’m useless!?”

“It’s just the word on the street. There’s this color code; leader in blue, genius in purple, warrior in red…”   
Lizzy feigned a lowered guard while she rambled on, inciting Michelangelo to act too soon. The ruse worked. He unleashed his kusarigama, and she snatched the weighted end of the weapon from mid-air before it could entangle her.

Michelangelo’s surprise was obvious, and Lizzy flashed an infuriating pointy-toothed smirk and added…  
“… and useless in orange” 

Michelangelo’s downcast expression dropped further. Tears pricking the corner of his eyes. Suddenly hot with embarrassment he let injury fester into anger, and armed with the sickle end of his kusarigama he pressed forward, using violent tugs and a slashing blade to try and either reclaim his weapon or take down his opponent.

Lounge Lizard, realizing her advantage, kept talking as she leapt about, pouring half her attention into avoiding the weapon, the other half into running her mouth.  
“Ah, don’t take it too personally k–Id. Yer’ only useless by compA-rison.” She explained, her voice cracking as a few swipes of the blade ventured a little too close for comfort.  
“In fact, ya' actually remind me a bit of myself when I was yer age.”

Michelangelo answered after a flurry of motion (attempts to knock her off balance mingled with attempts to deliver some damage), and a pause to recover his breath. Lizzy’s arm was now properly entangled in the chain, but it was a bitter success. He had tired himself out far too quickly. If he carried on like this he would either lose the weapon altogether, or be ill equipped once he closed in for the final blow.  
“That’s Cliche, yo.” He huffed, suppressing the heaviness in his breath “Real cliche. You don’t know anything about me!”

Lizzy chuckled.  
“I see it in the eyes. Yer’ an angry kid, deep down.” She challenged, working off of assumption and hitting too close to home “Ya' just don’t want to believe it. Being ‘angry’ don’t match up to what everyone else wants.”  
Deciding they had taken a long enough break, Lizzy yanked back her chain-tied arm and pulled Mikey to his feet. Rushing forward she retaliated with whatever blows and kicks possible with her remaining, unrestrained limbs. “But they don’t care. After you put all yer’ energy into lifting em’ up, they’ll leave you behind.”  
She paused, her beady chameleon gaze bouncing oddly in different directions, as if she needed to confirm that Mikey was alone before adding “Assuming they haven’t left ya' behind already.”  
  
Michelangelo let out a growl from behind grit teeth, and defied his mounting sense of exhaustion in order to up the ante. Dodge was met by dodge, blow by blow. Mikey threw the sickle blade forward in an attempted counter, and Jackie’s caught it in her free fist, but the odds were not all in her favor. The tangled chain that had grown taught rendering her tethered arm immobile, bringing them head-to head, frozen with effort, holding each-other back in a perfect stalemate.

“I suppose this is where you ask me to ‘join the dark side’?” Mikey gasped as he struggled.  
  
Lizzy nodded, big beads of sweat dripping from her head crest.  
“Yep. Yer turtle team may not need you, but you’ll fit right in with Mr. X.”

Michelangelo’s felt a vein in his forehead bulge, a knot forming in his throat  
“Bite me!”

Lizzy opened her mouth wide, and Mikey feared for a moment she intended to take his response literally. Instead the toothy maw released a long, wet, sticky tongue that slapped him across the eyes. Disgust and surprise knocked Mikey off balance. The chameleon, freed from the threat of the sickle blade for only a moment, dug into her pocket to pull free a second surprise attack, and by the time Michelangelo recovered his balance he felt the prick… a needle jammed into the side of his neck.

Michelangelo yelped and backed off, forgoing the struggle for his kusarigama in order to retreat, suddenly dizzy as he stumbled a few feet away. He gripped the object embedded into his skin and pulled it free, expecting the feathered end of a poison dart.  
Instead it was a syringe, nearly empty save for a milliliter of light blue fluid leftover at the bottom. The rest coursed through his blood stream while Lizzy watched on, calmly untangling herself from the weapon as she waited for the effects to take their hold.  
  


* * *

Casey Jones attempted a shout as he felt his arm yanked violently behind his back, but couldn’t emit much more than a hoarse squeak through the hand clamped tightly around his windpipe. Hun one-handedly maintained his stranglehold while foiling Casey's attempt to employ his shock-gauntlet, snatching his wrist and twisting violently.  
Casey shifted his weight on instinct, saving his arm from being broken, but not the contraption within his hockey glove. The potato masher snapped under pressure, shooting sharp needle pricks of electric current down his arm.  
It stung, but the pain’s severity was dulled by numbness, though Casey wasn’t sure if a lack of oxygen or his bruised spine were to blame, the place where his back had slammed against the sharp edge of the kitchen sink already black and swelling beneath his clothes. He considered plans for armor upgrades; small mobile protective plates along his spine, and extra buffing to protect his electric gauntlet. But that, of course, depended on whether or not he survived, and the longer Hun held his throat the less likely that seemed, his strength leaving him with every second of the struggle.

He didn’t want to go out like this. Not so easily. Being choked-out inside of a restaurant kitchen was a far cry from the way the late great Casey Jones wanted to meet his maker. But the vice grip only tightened around his windpipe. Darkness started to close in, and the threat of death burnt brighter in the back of his mind.  
What would this do to everyone? Would his family get on well enough without him? Tonight had no buildup, no proper warning….  
“ _What a lousy way to go_ ” 

Suddenly, a gunshot rang out while he was on the brink of consciousness, and Casey felt the pressure on his throat release. He crumpled to the ground, weak and breathless as Hun turned to face the interruption.

As often as the leader of The Purple Dragons carried himself with confident apathy, he couldn’t suppress a look of shock when Mr. Murakami stood in the doorway with a handgun, smoking from a warning shot, the bullet buried in a nearby wall.  
The old chef cocked the hammer and readjusted his aim, making it abundantly clear that there would be no further warnings.

“Enough! I’ve already called the police.” He explained in a voice both anxious, and resolute. “Take what you want from the register, and leave.”

Hun took a moment to examine Murakami, and saw that his hands were shaking. Blindness and inexperience would make him a poor aim, but it wouldn’t keep him from opening fire out of fear, and no amount of martial arts training would protect Hun from bullets fired in close-quarters. While he wasn’t certain if Murakami would make good on his threat, there was no doubt that he had called the police, or how long ago.  
The meager fortune of a small restaurant meant nothing to Hun. Disposing of the thorn in his side was the true goal, but considering the factors he decided the risk wasn’t worthwhile.  
Hun walked toward the exit, leaving behind the wounded vigilante and his unconscious companions. Murakami stepped to the side to give him open access to the exit but kept his gun trained on him, gauging location by footsteps.

“This isn’t over.” Hun threatened, low and quiet as he walked past the restaurant owner toward the exit. 

Murakami replied with a calm, acquiescing “I know."  
He kept his gun trained on the footsteps of the Purple Dragon until they disappeared through the dining room. The little bell over the door signaled his leave, soon followed by the distant sirens of approaching police cars.  
  


* * *

  
Michelangelo collapsed to his knees. His mind sank under a wave of pleasant sensations, relaxation loosening his grip on his nunchuck and the syringe as he toppled backwards onto his shell. He watched the New York sy overhead turning from starless to vibrant; golden glitter on garish purple, swirling and dancing like a grand ballroom, wrapping him in a warm blanket of euphoria. Overwhelmed, Michelangelo began giggling. Though he didn’t know why, he couldn’t stop. He felt too good to stop, so happy he could cry.  
He held his hands up above his face and looked them over. Counting his fingers, circling the creases in his knuckles. Never before were his hands so hilarious and fascinating. Beautiful, and foreign.  
They were wonderful. Everything was so wonderful.  
“Whoah… what?” Michelangelo mumbled, distantly understanding that this wasn’t natural “what is–… wow. What?”

Lizzy, fully at ease, untangled herself from the kusarigama and held it loosely at the side. She considered the weapon with an amused air, twirling the chain at her side as she answered the question.  
“Blue Ice. Also known as ‘Brand X. It’s a slightly altered form of mutant fish venom, courtesy of the head-honcho himself. First dose is free and believe me, one dose is all it takes.”

Mikey slowly remembered that he had been fighting, but laughed it off. He just wanted to stay here forever, cozy and warm under the glow of the fantasy stars, unaware of where he was or what was happening.

The chameleon walked into his line of sight, the drugs rendering her gaunt physique and bulbous eyes into something different entirely. She was an angelic figure of beauty and wonderment, her narration of his experience a gentle drum beat.  
  
“It’s pretty great, right? Like a soft bed at the end of a hard day, or a perfect Christmas morning. Every muscle relaxes, the entire world feels as it should be. The ugly turns beautiful, and the beautiful becomes magnificent. No fears, no regrets, no sadness… perfection in pill form.”

  
“Pill?” Mikey asked with a contented chuckle. He wore a ditsy smile while he pointed out the inconsistency, which Lizzy was all too happy to explain.

“Yeah. ‘Cause an injection is a fast track to an overdose.”

Michelangelo’s glee faltered into confusion as the Chameleon kneeled down next to him.  
“Give it a sec’” she added in a foreboding whisper, and as the time passed she watched his expression twist further, discomfort an unwelcome interruption to his bliss. Mikey turned over onto his side, arms wrapped around his plastron, signaling that the "show" was about to begin.

“Violent cramps come before anxiety. Yer’ muscles contract as hallucinations turn on you, but ya’ can’t run. Can’t move. Can barely blink by the time convulsions set in.”

Light blue eyes dilated as Mikey watched the stars overhead, and saw they had changed changed, becoming ugly green against muddy dark-brown, the swampy glimmers losing their hold on the firmament, falling with distant, pained shrieks.  
Deeply unsettled and wrought with sudden pain, Mikey turned instead to the chameleon kneeling over him. She wasn’t much better. Focusing on her mouth he watched it become two mouths, then four, rejoining to form the malformed jaws of squirrelanoid, dragging him downward into a black whirlpool of sewage. Fight-or-flight ignited Mikey’s heartbeat, his breaths quickened. He choked on spit he could no longer swallow, further convincing his confused mind that he was drowning, entangled in tongues and claws until he was suddenly– far _too_ suddenly– dragged up from the water’s surface.

Lizzy took the lip of the turtle’s plastron and forced him to his knees, taking great amusement in the unknown horror flashing behind his eyes. Mikey, A mess of convulsions, saw Kavaxas lift him skyward, absorbing his soul into open jaws, hellfire dismantling the very fiber of his being as the winged demodragon spoke…  
  
“ _Don’t worry kid, you’d have to inject a full liter of this stuff before it kills ya’ outright. It’s part of makes blue ice so good… no tempting death, no fearing death_.”

Michelangelo retched, squeezing his eyes shut as his stomach pain worsened. The knotted ache rippled over every muscle of his body, then returned to his guts with such intensity that he, in his delusional state, was convinced he had been stabbed.  
His eyes snapped open involuntarily, and he was met with with the mutagen-mutilated face of Shredder. Mikey was a puppet, reenacting his father’s final moments, bone blades impaling stomach and chest.

“ _Yer' in with Mr X now. Like it or not, ya' might as well be wearing the tattoo already._ ”

Lizzy held the turtle half-way to his feet with one hand, and held the kasurigami in the other. Her expression brightened as she was struck with an idea, and lifting the bladed end of the weapon she brought the sharpened edge of a sickle to the turtle’s face…  
  
Mikey flinched as Shredder tapped his cheek with a claw, ready to deliver the killing blow.  
  
“ _Scars speak louder than ink these days. Let’s start with the X right over 'ere, and see where my muse takes me._ ”

Lizzy began slowly, savoring the moment with a long, shallow cut. But she didn’t make it far when she felt something amiss and stopped. The lightest shuffle suggested something behind her, and her bulbous chameleon eyes flicked backwards to examine the shadows at her back. A flash of movement triggered her instincts. She dropped her prey, leaping her to her feet. The motion narrowly saved her throat from being pierced by an incoming arrow, which ended up buried in her shoulder instead. 

Shock and pain drove a guttural cry from Lizzy’s throat. Stumbling back she gripped the protruding weapon, snapping it off at the skin as she spun around to face her attackers.

A legion of Foot Clan emerged from the shadows, spaced out over the rooftops all around. Karai stood center to them, bow and arrow drawn, her fleet of red-garbed ninjas followed suit.  
Lizzy, the focal point of a dozen arrows, was left dismayed and confused. She knew Mr. X had cut ties with the foot, but as far as she knew there was no feud between them… nothing that would spurn this sort of attack from the woman at the top. Acting on a hunch Lizzy distanced herself from the turtle, dropping the kusarigama and putting her hands in the air in surrender. Her left arm only lifted half-way, the hot pain of her injured shoulder hindering her movement.

Karai took note of the submission and put away her weapon. However, she motioned for her followers to maintain their aim, leaping from her position atop a nearby cornice to the lower rooftop where Lizzy stood by anxiously. The chameleon backed off further as the leader of The Foot made her way to the defeated turtle, kneeling down and looking him over, distress shining clearly behind her mask. As Karai tended to the shallow cut on Michelangelo's face, Lizzy suddenly realized her mistake and attempted to explain herself.

“Hey hey hey! if I knew he was with you I wouldn’t a' screwed with ‘im! I swear it! I know my place! I don’t mess with The Foot!”

Karai ignored her. Cradling Mikey in her arms she checked his pulse, then his temperature, then... golden eyes found their way to the nearly empty syringe, rolling across ground by his hand. As the leader of The Foot lifted and examined the blue liquid, Lizzy realized she had to disappear– regardless of whether she was still coated in flour, or if the arrow she’d snapped off was still protruding from her skin. She wasn’t going to survive the inevitable hoard of arrows so long as she was opaque. 

So she flashed out of existence and took off running, bobbing and weaving all the way. Behind her were surprised shouts and the whiz of arrows, rushing past her cheeks, barely missing their mark, but missing all the same.  
She was invisible. _Mostly_ , at least. Which meant she had a chance of surviving.

Karai saw the arrows imbed themselves in brick and concrete, indifference festering to hatred as she tucked away the syringe and rose to standing, effortlessly lifting the convulsing body of her brother in her arms as she got to her feet.  
“Watashi wa kame wo uchi ni tsurete” she explained, telling her soldiers in their own language that she would take the turtle home. Turning her back to the them, she delivered one final command before disappearing into the darkness, down the alleyway and toward the sewer grate below.  
  
“Kanojou o korosu.”  
_Kill her._

She was answered with an obedient “Hai!”  
  
The Foot rushed toward the fleeing shadow and Karai changed shape, her serpentine body allowing her a quick descent and a strong grip as she slithered off, tightly clutching her burden to her chest.


End file.
